Processing Last Year
I already told about that 2nd night, how it was worse than the first. What I didn't mention was the anxiety storm I was in. I was awake all night imagining the worst - the mounting medical bills, the needs Timo would have for the coming months, my own inner world feeling like it was hanging by a thread. Was I prayerful? Kind of. More whiny, and perplexed, trying to figure out how we would manage. As the sun began to rise, and I was still panicky and fearful, I knew I couldn't carry that load anymore in my soul. It just wasn't sustainable. My prayer became different then. Instead of, "But God, what about this? What about that? What about my limited capacity? What about Timo in pain? What about bills? What about healing? What about hope? None of this seems hopeful. Oh, and by the way, thank you for sparing his life." Yeah, I caught myself on this last one. The storm I was in had overcome me. I could barely scratch the surface of gratitude. Sure, I suddenly saw surgeons, nurses, and emergency personnel as these amazing heroes rushing to our aid and patching my broken kid together. Sure, I was grateful to them, for them. But my heart towards God was, dare I say, less so?
I'm not a fan of the inner self-critic. I'm not saying 'shame on me for failing in the gratitude department'. But I'm totally a fan of inner self-awareness, of self-reflection and observation. Hmmm, that last prayer, it's my honest lament and fear rising to the surface. "Lord, I know You welcome those prayers, the limping heart that flutters faintly with its whimpering expressions of dismay! I need You to hear those prayers, to hold them tenderly. But now I see my eyes were on all the threats and fears that were going to consume me. Gratitude seemed almost an afterthought. Now my prayer to You is this: help me to trust. Help my heart to taste the fullness of gratitude, of peace, of joy, of surrender. Will You strengthen and sustain me so my eyes are fixed on You and not this storm?" You see, my prayer was changing. I was changing.
There's a wonderful Latin phrase: Lex Credendi, Lex Orandi. (I'm grateful to a certain someone who introduced me to this!) It means: the law of belief is the law of prayer. As we believe, so we pray. I know it sounds obvious - almost goes without saying. But that's the point. It's the obvious that we so often miss. What do my prayers say about me? How do my prayers reveal my belief? My spinning-out-anxiety-overwhelm prayers are absolutely fitting and right, as the Psalmist shows us - we need the freedom to have our petulant hissy fit before the God Who ordains all that comes to pass. And at the same time, we need to see ourselves and yearn for a turning, for a hope, for a peace that will still the quivering heart. The law of belief is the law of prayer. So, if I choose to pray differently, in essence, I will shift my belief from a place of doubt and fear to a place of trust.
That night, with the sun rising after the 2nd all-nighter, I was totally spent. I gave up. I told God, "I will choose to trust. From here on out, I will tell myself: Fear is a choice. Trust is a choice. I'm going to choose the latter." As I laid that out before God, I noticed a stillness coming into that raging storm within me. Nothing had changed. I was still on the bench-cot in a hospital room with a broken boy in the bed nearby. If anything, I was still to experience the challenges of moving him home, and the withdrawal of full nursing care, and what that would mean. Things were going to get harder for me. But I could not live in the borrowing of fear and worry. It was already eating me up. When those anxieties arose, I turned my heart to trust. And it is still like that, in every aspect of life.
Late in the day on September 2, when Sam came to visit, he said he would take over at the hospital with Timo. And I was able to head home. I came back home, went immediately to bed, and awoke the next morning, and seeing it was Sunday, I went to church.
Journal:
Saturday, September 2: Hannah's 12th birthday. At hospital - long night, all nighter #2 - not much sleep. Helping T. remember to breathe, keep oxygen up. Watching him in pain. So sad. So hard. Sam came so I can go home.
Sunday, September 3: "So glad for a night of rest. Went to church - a balm for my soul. Sang,
"Jesus, lover of my soul, let me to Thy bosom fly;
While the nearer waters roll, While the tempest still is high.
Hide me oh, my Saviour hide - till the storm of life is past!
Safe into Thy haven guide! Oh receive my soul at last!
Other refuge have I none! Hangs my helpless soul on Thee,
Leave, ah, leave me not alone! Still support and comfort me!
All my trust on Thee is stayed. All my help from Thee I bring!
Cover my defenseless head, in the shadow of Thy wing!"
Not only are these words so powerful and appropriate to me, but they are by my all-time favourite hymn-writer, Charles Wesley (with Isaac Watts a close second, of course). Charles, reaching through time, again and again, ministers to my soul with his poetry. I don't know who decided we should sing this hymn today. But in case it wasn't enough, they also picked another that reminds me of my struggle last night over fear, trust, gratitude. We sang this later in the service:
"Give to our God immortal praise, mercy and truth are all His ways,
Wonders of grace to God belong, repeat His mercies in your song."
This, by Isaac Watts. Our church is big. I'm sure the song-picker wasn't aware of my personal 2 favourite hymn-writers when choosing these. I sat there in tears. "I will repeat the wonders of Your grace. I will sing Your mercies. I will reflect on all the praise, and mercy, and truth You continue to pour out on me," I prayed as I soaked in these strains sung by the hundreds around me.
I went to ask for prayer for Timo. I feel helpless and carried by the wings of prayer, of faith, of a song and a prayer-minister. It was so needed. This man lifted up my son and me to the throne of grace, and I stand waiting and crushed and needy.
After church, all the moms whose worst nightmares might be for a teenage son to fly through the air to his impending death, surrounded me and prayed over me. Their tears, their hearts, their hugs, their prayers showed me a solidarity of motherhood unlike anything I've known. These faithful, strong, wise women rose to meet me in my hour of need.
Later that week I would start to blog, but then took it down while some legal issues were pending. Here's what I wrote:
It's been a week since my world came to a screeching halt.
I sit in my living room and see the bare floor, and notice it needs to be swept. The rug isn't there right now; a reminder of one more shift, one small change that has interrupted everything. A walker doesn't slide on a rug so well.
A wheelchair sits in the corner, gauze wrappers strewn on the bathroom counter. A motorcycle helmet sits on the couch, as if a silent witness to the life it shielded.
Sam and I were going to bed Thursday, August 31st. The day before we had celebrated Timo's 17th birthday. I had pleaded with him to not do anything illegal, at least not until after he turned 18, joking that then we wouldn't be as liable for his choices. When he was born, as with all babies, we had no idea what package deal we were taking on. The journey as a parent is one of faith, no matter what kind of faith any of us has, every parent has faith of some kind.
I always check for where he is before turning in. A mother's instinct, or just trying to be responsible, I suppose.
I didn't see Timo around. Where could he be? I hoped he wasn't out. But he was. I phoned him around 9.50. I hoped he wasn't on his bike. We had tried in the past to enforce our will on him. This approach did not work - he was determined to choose his own way.
He answered and said he needed some special glue for a bit of his bike before selling it the next day. I wasn't happy with the situation, but knew if I told him anything negative while he was out, it might impair his driving. The talk would have to come later after he got home. Or not at all. Over the months of pleading and trying to parent, he had worn me down. My fear and anxiety for him was blown out of proportion, or so I was told. I was overreacting. I didn't need to worry so much.
Sometimes fears and anxieties are overreactions. Sometimes they are the whispers of God.
Two months ago I witnessed a motorcycle crash on the highway. I pulled over, called 911 and waited for a bit and prayed I wouldn't experience adrenaline crash while driving. That scene played over in my head for days and I had nightmares for about a week. My worst fear was if this ever happened to my son. I imagined, reasoning, 'now I've imagined the worst, certainly it won't happen.' That is a ridiculous thought, but I thought it. Even so, I prayed the worst would not happen. I prayed God would end the risky endeavors my son was into. I prayed also that God would turn his life and heart to what truly matters, that he would learn to love God, and grow to understand himself and others better.
After I hung up, I started to climb into bed and before turning off the light I saw my phone with the screen lit up. It was already on silent, and it was Timo calling back. I wondered what he might be calling about. He doesn't generally call. His voice was clear, 'Uh, can you come get me? I need you to help me get home.' Ok, I thought, he must have some glitch with his vehicle (I still didn't realize he was on his motorcycle). But then another voice in the background, 'Is that your Mom?' I listen. 'We're calling an ambulance.' Then Timo responds, 'No, you don't need to do that, my Mom will get me, I'll be okay.' Even though this is concerning, I imagine he is really fine and this is just a procedure they follow. 'Are you ok?' I ask. 'Uh, yeah, I just fell off my bike.' Though his voice is shaky, I take him at his word - he's okay, he just fell off his bike, that's all.
(To be Continued...)
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